


Dragon Age Prompts

by FalseProphet (Batmanthegroomer)



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: Addiction, Assisted Suicide, Babysitting, Death, F/M, Fear, Lyrium Addiction, M/M, Mentions of Rape, Murder, Nightmare, Pregnancy, Racism, dark themes, injuries, suggested rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-05
Updated: 2015-07-07
Packaged: 2018-03-16 12:12:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 11,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3487805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Batmanthegroomer/pseuds/FalseProphet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of prompts from my tumblr account, falseprophet.tumblr.com</p><p>I couldn't think of anywhere else to store them, so they get their own little place here.</p><p>Feel free to inbox me prompts here or on tumblr. (I will remove this when I am no longer taking prompts. So if you're reading this, I'm taking them. :) )</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Each chapter will have unique and specific warnings. 
> 
> This chapter is simply a list of the prompts.

1-10 Safe  
11-20 Sexual  
21-30 Dark (might be triggering)

1\. Secret hobby  
2\. Child time — meaning the chosen character as a child  
3\. Training  
4\. Dating/Early OTP relationship  
5\. Drunk  
6\. High school/Academy/Teenager  
7\. With children—their own or babysitting or something  
8\. Fighting  
9\. Secret  
10\. Character Flaw  
11\. First time  
12\. Dirty talk  
13\. Role reversal  
14\. Hidden kink  
15\. Drunk  
16\. Multiple partners  
17\. Super sweet and sappy  
18\. Masturbation  
19\. Domination  
20\. Foreplay/Teasing  
21\. Torture  
22\. Absolute fear  
23\. Character death  
24\. Forced to do something bad  
25\. Battle/war  
26\. Sick/Terminal/Contagion/Hospital etc  
27\. Rape  
28\. Stitching self up/severely injured & alone  
29\. Killing someone  
30\. Ism, sexism, culturalism, etc etc

Phrase prompts

1\. "Come over here and make me."  
2\. "Have you lost your damn /mind/?!"  
3\. "Please, don't leave."  
4\. "Do you... well... I mean... I could give you a massage?"  
5\. "Wait a minute. Are you jealous?"  
6\. "Is there a reason you're naked in my bed?"  
7\. "I almost lost you."  
8\. "Wanna bet?"  
9\. "Don't you ever do that again!"  
10\. "Teach me how to play?"  
11\. "Don't you dare throw that snowba-, goddamnit!"  
12\. "I think we need to talk."  
13\. "Kiss me."  
14\. "Hey, I'm with you, okay? Always."  
15\. "So, I found this waterfall..."  
16\. "It could be worse."  
17\. "Looks like we'll be trapped here for a while..."  
18\. "This is without a doubt the stupidest plan you've ever had. Of course I'm in."  
19\. "The paint's supposed to go /where/?"  
20\. "You need to wake up because I can't do this without you."  
21\. "We're in the middle of a thunder storm and you want to stop and feel the rain?"  
22\. "I've seen the way you look at me when you think I don't notice."  
23\. "Just once."  
24\. "You're the only one I trust to do this."  
25\. "I can't believe you talked me into this."  
26\. "I got you a present."  
27\. "I'm pregnant."  
28\. "Marry me?"  
29\. "I thought you were dead."  
30\. "It's not what it looks like..."  
31\. "You lied to me."  
32\. "I think I'm in love with you and I'm terrified."  
33\. "Please don't do this."  
34\. "If you keep looking at me like that we won't make it to a bed."  
35\. "You heard me. Take. It. Off."  
36\. "I wish I could hate you."  
37\. "Wanna dance?"  
38\. "You fainted... straight into my arms. You know if you wanted my attention you didn't have to go to such extremes."  
39\. "Hey! I was gonna eat that!"  
40\. "Have I entered an alternate universe or did you really crack a smile for me?"  
41\. "You did all of this for me?"  
42\. "I swear it was an accident."  
43\. "YOU DID WHAT?!"  
44\. "If you die, I'm gonna kill you."  
45\. "Tell me a secret."  
46\. "Hey, have you seen the...? /Oh./"   
47\. "No one needs to know."  
48\. "Boo."  
49\. "Well this is awkward."


	2. Dating/Early OTP Relationship (Dorian)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Colemance.  
> Fluff.  
> Self-Doubt.  
> Insecurity.

Dorian hadn’t ever considered dating, formal dating, like courting. He hadn’t the time or luxury for such things in Tevinter and he’d never entertained finding time for them now that the sky had split open and the world was ending. But… here he was.

Honeyed eyes stared curiously at the wine bottle on the small table, just room enough for two plates and two goblets. He’d managed to move things around in his small nook of the library and fit in the little thing. It was too short for chairs, but that was what fancy pillows were for.

The mage stepped back and eyed his handiwork with criticism, hands firmly on his hips as he tilted his head from one side to the other. He knew he didn’t have to adhere to any norms or standards—not here, especially not with /him/—but part of him wanted to. Part of him wanted to be able to stare his father in the eye some day and fully describe how Tevinter ‘perfect’ his first… date had been.

He’d paid a delicate little maid from the tavern in advance to prepare a meal to his exact specifications. He’d stopped in to check more than once and had assured himself that everything would be fine. He couldn’t help his nerves. Even knowing that his date for the evening would have no idea about how important it was that the plates were turned just slightly, about how there was no mistake in the colors chosen for the pillows, it still made Dorian tense and unsure.

Part of him was scared beyond belief. Part of him had settled a deal with the Maker that if everything was perfect beyond a shadow of a doubt that this relationship would hold… that this time… Ahh, but that was foolish.

Dorian glanced over his shoulder as he heard soft footsteps on the stairs. They were not the soft shoes of the maid, though they were timid.

"Dorian?" Came the soft voice, curious, almost as nervous as the mage pretended not to be.

"About time." Dorian huffed, moving to lean against a bookshelf, turning to face the man on the stairs. "I was starting to think you’d reconsidered my offer."

"No. I was talking with Varric. I have never been on a … date before. I thought it was something you ate."

Dorian smiled softly and felt every muscle in his body relax. Who cared if his measurements were off or if the fowl was cooked improperly? It would be just as thrilling to tell his father he had forgone all Tevinter regulations as it would be to say he’d adhered to them.

He held out his hand and smirked.

"Well, then you are certainly in for a treat, Cole."


	3. With Children--their own or babysitting or something. (Varric)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bethany Hawke & Nathaniel Howe babies  
> Mage babies  
> Longing

Maker help him, he’d /agreed/ to this. He tried desperately to recall the moment in question, the moment when he’d made his deal with the demon—so to speak—and it was fresh in his mind though it was years gone. He wasn’t enchanted. He wasn’t being held at the end of a blade. His mind was his own so he couldn’t blame it on drink or anything of the like.

No he had been completely, one hundred percent sound and sane of mind when he’d agreed to be the God Parent to Bethany’s children. It had seemed like such a simple matter at the time.

That was before they knew she’d be having twins. Before they knew they’d both be especially gifted mages. Damnit, Varric had little experience with non-magic kids… he was in way over his head.

They were so young to be showing signs of mage-dom already, but experts were agreeing that it had something to do with women pregnant during the breach. New mages were popping up all over, tiny, drooling mages with no way to control burping fireballs or half awake ice storm sneezes.

Varric found himself in a rare moment of quiet and he narrowed his eyes. He was seated by the fireplace, each child nestled in his own wooden craddle at his feet. He had been rocking them gently, trying to soothe soft whimpers and the threat of infantile spells, but now they were silent.

He glanced down at them. Twins, they should have expected it really. Malcolm—the stronger of the two—had sprouts of dark hair but hadn’t gotten rid of his grandfather’s bright blue eyes. He was a round, chubby thing, loud and curious and all the things you’d expect from a healthy baby. Carver was soft and observant. His hair looked more like wheat with a touch of red. His eyes were still light but had darkened considerably over the past few weeks.

"You know you’re both technically nobility." Varric said quietly. "You should have maids and servants to do this kind of thing." He shook his head and found he was still grinning down at them.

Had things been different he wondered, for a moment, what it might be like to be looking down at his own children. He knew from the moment he’d first seen the twins that he—like the rest of their extended family—would die to protect them, but he entertained what that feeling would be like if they were his own flesh and blood.

Would one of them have his nose? Maybe someone would inherit Bartrand’s facial hair, so eager to make him a man it had started growing in early.

Varric chuckled at the thought, and his eyes caught movement. Carver slowly lifted his sleepy, heavy eyelids and peered up at him.

"Can’t sleep?" Varric muttered, watching the baby yawn. Tiny features began to wrinkle and distort as tears loomed on the horizon.

"No-no. Don’t do that. You want to hear a story?" When the baby held off tears another second, Varric took that as a yes. "Have I told you about the time your uncle Hawke killed a high dragon all by himself? Not that he didn’t have help, of course, but the rest of us were down and out… It was just Hawke and the dragon…"


	4. Absolute Fear (Alistair)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fear  
> Nightmares  
> Death  
> Morrigan

He stared down at the necklace in his hands. They trembled but the blood stained on the leather and didn’t move. He ran his thumb over the silver buckle, dented and broken. He wanted to cry. He wanted to sink to his knees and sob; drown the world in the pain he felt. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t do anything but stare at the necklace… /her/ necklace.

Around him he could hear people cheering. Cries of ‘Loghain!’ filling the air like unwanted rain. The Blight was over, Loghain was King… Aeren was dead. Zevran was dead. Wynne had abandoned them for the circle. They were all gone.

He had not wanted to be King. He had refused; he had gone kicking and screaming and look where it had left him. The only soul broken amidst cheers of a Blight ended. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be.

Off in the distance he heard demands of exile for the Grey Wardens, execution. In the end they had done nothing, proved nothing. Duncan had lied. The Grey Wardens were nothing more than men and women bound to the Calling. How Alistair longed to hear that sound. He wanted to throw himself at the Deep Roads, fall into oblivion that he might again know something other than this…

All they had done… for nothing.

"Alistair! For the last time you wretched idiot! You’re keeping the whole camp awake!" 

Alistair sat up with a gasp as he was doused in freezing water. He shouted and was instantly on his feet. He spun to face Morrigan, recognition and understanding dawning in his eyes.

"Ahh, good. Maybe now we can get some sleep. Honestly I enjoyed your screaming at first but I tire of it now."

He gaped for a moment as the witch moved off, leaving Alistair with little company by the fire. Zevran offered him a look that was somewhere between pity and annoyance.

"Bad dreams?" The Antivan offered, voice softer than Alistair would have liked to admit. For his part he nodded.

"We were…" He began, tongue thick. "Out of cheese." He finished, sitting down heavily on his bedroll.

"Oh, of course. What a nightmare." Zevran shook his head.

Alistair frowned. His skin crawled. He would not be sleeping again any time soon.


	5. Forced to do something bad (Dorian)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Death  
> Murder  
> Assisted Suicide  
> Racism  
> Rape

He stared down at the woman against his chest with wide eyes. His pupils were barely visible, his mouth open wide in a look of horror. He could feel the elf woman clutching at his shirt desperately. She shook all over, tremors of remembered vile acts and adrenaline coursing through her system.

No way out, she’d said. Everyone knew the Pavus house tried, at least, to be kind. Dorian was her only way out. She couldn’t take it anymore. The abuse, the… touching. She’d lashed out. She’d murdered her master.

"There is no safe haven for wretches like me!" She sobbed against Dorian’s chest. "Please!"

Dorian could barely look down at her, managing in shock to meet her eyes. She’d cornered him outside the bath house. He was her sign. He was the Maker come to free her. Had she run into anyone else she would have surely suffered more… but Dorian, Master Pavus… he could… he could…

"I… I can’t."

"No! No please!" The woman stepped back slightly, tightening her grip on Dorian’s tunic. "I cannot expect mercy. I have… have killed my master. You know they will offer me no mercy. I will be locked in a cell, starved, forgotten until my trial… if they offer me that. They will drag me through the streets to make an example!"

Dorian felt his body go cold. She was right, the woman was right. He did not have enough sway to convince his family to take this woman in, not considering who she belonged to. Her house had such political power, such command… Harboring her would only spell disaster.

Dorian could make this quick. Painless.

He looked down again and met her eyes. She was weeping openly, face smeared with blood. How she had managed to run Dorian could not imagine. He saw countless horrors in her eyes, the truth of what the other magisters did to their slaves.

He nodded slowly.

He could feel the woman relax against him, her sobs now filled with relief.

Dorian reached up and wrapped a single arm around her tiny shoulders. He set the other one—shaking as badly as she had been—against the back of her head. He closed his eyes.

He heard her whisper a small thank you before he crushed her heart. He sunk to the ground with the corpse, shaking.


	6. Ism, sexism, culturalism, etc etc (Merrill)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Racism  
> Loneliness  
> Self Doubt

"Oh! I’m so sorry. I didn’t see you!" Merrill yelped, quickly bringing her hands to cover her mouth.

It figures that the first time she would dare venture into High Town without Hawke something bad would happen. Why couldn’t she just have waited, like he asked her to? She had to strike out on her own, see the sights. Oh, she would never learn.

"Please, let me help." She offered, a warm smile gracing her features.

The woman whom she’d unceremoniously run into had been carrying a box of jewelry; and the contents of said box were now scattered all over the ground. Merrill bent and picked up a lovely gold necklace as the woman continued to gape silently.

"Oh, this is beautiful!" Merrill sighed, looking up from the ground. "Did you—"

'Make these' fell from Merrill's lips only to be swallowed by a scream from the woman. Two well-worn hands clapped against rosy cheeks. She looked horrified. Merrill… she knew that look well.

"Thief! Somebody help!"

Merrill’s eyebrows lifted. She looked around but it was quite clear the woman meant her!

"Th-thief?"

"Someone! Anyone! Guards!" The woman was frantic, practically dancing in place.

Merrill knitted her eyebrows together. She was serious, this woman. She was not attempting to make a scene, or attempting to bring undue commotion, she was honestly terrified. She really, truly believed that Merrill was stealing from her. Merrill felt bile rise in the back of her throat as her eyes burned and her fingers itched to grab for her staff. A broken heart stayed her hand.

"What’s all this screaming?"

"Oh, thank the Maker! This-this dirt-child is stealing from me!"

'Dirt child?' Merrill mouthed to herself. She stood slowly as the guard looked at her.

"Drop the necklace, knife-ear." He growled, fixing Merrill with a cold stare.

"I—I but…. I was just—"

"I know what ‘you were just’. Now put it down and back away, slowly."

Merrill’s eyebrows met in the middle, tears threatening to spill over dark lashes. She dropped the necklace to the ground and slowly moved back, lifting her hands up.

"I didn’t do anythin’…" She muttered, shying away as the guard moved closer. She hissed through her teeth as he grabbed her upper arm, none-too-gently.

"Now take your elf-ass back to the alienage before I change my mind. I could have you jailed for this. Stealing from kind women… in High Town. The nerve on you."

Merrill nodded stiffly and stumbled away as the guard released her. She spared once last glance towards the woman—crying now, bending down to pick up her jewelry—before turning and running.

She’d met foul guards, she’d dealt with them before… but that woman. She was so sure Merrill was the enemy.

The mage began to feel the familiar pang of longing for her clan, only to remember…

They didn’t want her either.


	7. Child time -- meaning the chosen character as a child (Fenris)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Child abuse (?)  
> Slavery

Leto clapped a hand over his mouth to keep from giggling. He would give away his location for sure if he made a sound. His sister was too good at listening; she could hear Leto sneeze from across the courtyard. Leto was kind of envious, but he was faster and stronger than his older sister already so he rubbed that in her face whenever he could.

He watched Varania’s red hair through the leaves of a short bush. It was very hard not to giggle—she was walking right past him! He might finally have outsmarted her! Green eyes sparkled with mischief and his lips turned into a smirk behind his hand.

With a short yell Leto sprang out of the bush, a few feet behind his sister as she moved on to keep looking for him. He took a second to spare her a silly face—tongue wagging—before darting off in the direction she’d come from, the direction of base and of his inevitable win.

“Leto!” Varania shouted, discouraged that her little brother had managed to one-up her. She could never catch him and watching him sprint off told her she’d lost… again.

“I’m not playing with you anymore! You cheat!” She whined, taking off after the brunette boy anyway.

Leto skidded around a corner and hit the ground. He chuckled, breathless and reached up to grab his mother’s skirt.

“BASE!” He shouted happily, panting on the ground. Varania stomped in frustration as she turned the corner to witness his triumph.

“No shouting, please.” Their mother said quietly, tired already at this hour of the morning. Her dress was covered in dust, her hair falling out of it’s bun, and the lines under her eyes more drawn and dark than usual.

“Ir’abelas, mamae.” The children said in unison.

Leto glanced towards the off-limits portion of the courtyard. Children belonging to the master’s sister, human children, were swimming happily in a large in ground pool. They were screaming and playing some kind of loud game. Leto frowned, wondering—and not for the first time—why they were permitted to do what they wanted while he and Varania always had to mind themselves.

At least they were together, he thought. There was a boy, slightly older than Varania, who’d been taken away from his family. Leto felt his chest clench at the thought of leaving his mother, his sister. It might be quiet and un-fun at times, but it was home, they were family.

He smiled brightly at the thought.


	8. Stitching self up/severely injured & alone (Rawls)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gore  
> Blood  
> Injury

The Keeper was right… oh gods, the Keeper was right.

Rawls sucked in a breath at long last, only to be speared by pain through his chest. Fifteen summers since he’d been born and he had never felt pain like this, panic like this. He’d been reckless—again—and this time things hadn’t gone his way.

The Keeper was right!

He could hear the halla stampeding away, hollering into the night about the scare they’d been given, about the herdmate they’d almost lost to a lone elf. They shook the ground and Rawls’ head echoed the thudding.

He winced and tried to roll to his side, achieving the move with a shout and a cry of pain. He hunched in on his side, left arm tingling. He carefully placed his right hand over his side—and felt nothing but torn flesh and hot blood. His eyes welled with tears, he gasped.

Immediately he began coughing, his chest on pins and needles and wracked with tightness. His eyes registered splatters of red on the soft green moss beneath him. He could taste his life on his tongue, smeared over his lips.

He struggled to flip himself onto his hands and knees, feeling his side flayed open and giving into gravity. He groaned and gripped the wound closed with his right hand, struggling through a moan of pain to do so. Blood trickled down his arm as he moved to his knees.

He breathed in and his lungs rattled, his chest throbbed and the world spun. He shifted to stand, wobbling back and forth as the earth continued to sway before him. He stumbled forward three steps until he could go no further. He fell to his knees and spared voice to moan. He doubled over and pressed his forehead into the earth.

He could feel the wound in his side ripping further with each breath. He tried to suck in deeply but the rattling and the coughing left him gasping. He flared his nostrils, tears dripping down his nose into the moss. He could barely clench his left hand into a fist.

The Keeper was right… Rawls was reckless. He was going to get himself killed.

Rawls curled tighter in on himself, feeling the puncture of the halla’s antlers over and over again, wishing instead to feel the hands of his Keeper. They would be tough hands, hands of ‘I told you so’ but they would be welcomed. They would be touches of ‘you’re a danger to this clan’ and ‘you’re old enough to pull your own weight’ and still Rawls craved them.

He moaned into the earth and tried to concentrate on the smell of dirt and not the taste of blood; the cool night air and not the hot blood between his fingers; the tingling in his lips and not the tearing of flesh.

The Keeper… was always right.


	9. Fighting (Zevran)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gore  
> Violence  
> Death  
> Murder

Light. All weight on the balls of his feet. He can turn and side-step at the blink of an eye. He’s fast and agile. He knows his body and understands to be light in all things, even his footing.

Spin. Spot with the head, don’t turn too quickly. He learned that the hard way. Being dizzy in a fight is surrendering. Keep the eyes focused on one unmoving point, wait until the last possible second to turn his head, find the point. Keep the ground beneath his feet and his head on straight.

Duck. But don’t crouch, don’t bend, must stay focused. Like a dance, like moving in to catch a partner. It’s not so much about avoiding the hit as it is about letting the hit slide past. The blade doesn’t bend, it’s solid steel and deadly, so he must bend and take up the slack.

Parry. Meet steel with steel, don’t match strength—he can’t—avoid. He’s not strong, not traditionally. He can’t lift his own weight or throw full grown men across the battlefield. He can hold his own against men three times his size. He uses their strength against them.

Counter. An opening, he has to take it: take him down. He can’t ever think about it. He can’t ever consider what he’s doing or what it might feel like. He’s never felt a dagger buried hilt-deep in his chest. He prays he never will but knows it will likely be the last sensation he feels.

Splatter. Blood on his chest, not his own, stay focused. Don’t think about a dead man. Don’t think about who he was or where he came from. He’s the enemy, he’s the hit. He doesn’t have a life or a story or children or people who love him. He’s a hit. He’s a target. His blood is money not life.

Pain. His arm, he wasn’t careful enough. He was thinking too hard, he was distracted. He’d be dead if he didn’t pull himself together. His arm but not his life. His bicep but not his throat. His poisoned blade but not his dominate hand.

Clash. One good blade against his attacker. It was all he needed if he played his cards right. One target left standing. One block, one thrust. He could count, he could still turn this around.

Useless: Arm at his side, blade on the ground. He can feel the blade under his boot, prays it doesn’t slice thin leather. Prays he doesn’t poison himself on his own blade. He’d done it once, swore never to do it again.

Reckless. Blade barely misses his cheek, brings them close. Too close. Zevran sees realization in the eyes of his target. He can feel a final breath over his face as he twists the dagger he’s pushed into the man’s chest. He watches as life leaves eyes locked onto his. He feels a shudder over his body.

Victory. Collect evidence, get his reward. Don’t think about it. Don’t look for names or wedding rings or personal belongings. Don’t memorize faces. Don’t let his mind wander. Save it for the nightmares later. Save it for the list of wrongs he’s done.

Move on. Don’t stop. This fight is over but he’s not done. He’s never done. Crows don’t sleep. Murders don’t wait.


	10. With children—their own or babysitting or something (Hawke)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fluff  
> Hawke is ridiculous

Everyone heard the cliches, about how having a child changes a person on a deep level. About how people may think they know love, but no-one can really know love until they have a child.

Hawke was feeling it now.

He sat on the end of the bed, staring down at the boy. A warm bundle in his hands. A bundle of heart beats and soft little noises; of wiggles and sighs too deep for such a small body.

William wondered what color eyes he would have. He wondered what his hair would look like.

Would he be a fighter, like his father, or more of a lover like his mother? Would he want to travel and see the world and everything it had to offer; or would he prefer to stay at home, to watch his family and protect his home?

William stroked a thumb over a soft cheek, smiling with tears in his eyes. He could hear the boy’s mother behind him, catching her breath. She was exhausted. She’d done so much. William was so proud of her, of what she’d given him.

William lifted the boy and bowed his head, planting a soft kiss on a wrinkled forehead.

“Hawke…”

William looked up as Fenris sighed from the doorway.

“You need to leave the puppies alone. They’ll never get to eat if you keep fawning over them like this.”


	11. Drunk (Hawke)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Language  
> Idiots in the Chantry  
> Gross over-use of the word Butt  
> Talking about brothels

Bethany gave a soft smile, feeling a blush rise in her cheeks. She could feel Sebastian’s eyes on her and it didn’t help. She tucked a piece of hair behind her ear and opened her mouth to reply.

“Beth-an-eeeeeeeeeeeeeee!”

The mage’s eyes narrowed. She saw Sebastian’s head whip around out of the corner of her eye.

“Bethie! Beeeeeeeethany!”

She didn’t turn. She watched Sebastian frown, worried, as he tried to catch her gaze.

“B-bethany, your brother…” He whispered, as if she couldn’t hear William yelling, as if the whole Chantry couldn’t hear him yelling.

“William, for the love of the Maker, what?” Bethany turned, frowning. Her brother was seated in a front row pew. He was almost doubled over himself, drunk and disheveled.

“Bethany, you’re short. Ha!” William snickered, slapping his knee as he laughed. Bethany could feel a headache starting. She could feel Sebastian warring with himself beside her. He was clearly caught between not wanting to step between the siblings and wanting to cause bodily harm to William Hawke for being drunk in the Chantry.

“William, what are you doing here?” Bethany spat, crossing to stand near to him, hoping he would stop shouting.

“I came to-to-to see my little sister.”

“You smell like a bar.”

“I’ve been at the bar.”

“You’re piss drunk, aren’t you.”

“You can’t-can’t say ‘piss’ in the Chantry! You can’t say any curse words in the chantry.” William admonished, clicking his tongue on the roof of his mouth. “‘s why I’m here. Varric-Varric-he can’t call me an ass in the Chantry. He’s gotta call me a butt.”

“Oh, for the love of Andraste.” Sebastian groaned, squeezing the bridge of his nose. “William I’m going to say something to you that I would never have thought I would need or want to say to anyone.”

“Butt?”

“Get out of the Chantry. This instant.”

William gasped, feigning insult. He waved a hand at his chest.

“Sebastian you… you butt!”

Sebastian turned away and put his hands on his hips, shaking his head. He tilted slightly towards Bethany.

“Bethany, I care for you but if he doesn’t leave… I may resort to violence.”

“Resort, Sebastian. Maker please, resort.” Bethany sighed.

“HAWKE.”

The group startled and glanced towards the exit as Varric stumbled out of a side room.

“VARRIC.” William replied, standing and leaning heavily on the pew for support.

“The cult of Un-Dressed-Ay! Like Andraste. Un-draste. Undressed.”

“That’s—Varric that’s beautiful.”

“Dare I ask?” Sebastian whispered in a horrified voice.

“It’s the name for our brothel.”

“A-a brothel?” Sebastian hissed. “You’re discussing… a brothel in the name of… Oh Maker, give me the strength to resist.”

“William, get out now.”

“Oooh, but why? Haha. Butt. I was just having fun!”

“You can’t—you can’t be drunk in the Chantry! Yelling about-about that kind of thing!” Sebastian growled leaning forward to grab William by the front of his shirt. The older Hawke chuckled and lifted his hands.

“Ok, ok. We’ll go.” William patted Sebastian’s hands and turned to start down the aisle towards his just-as-drunken dwarf.

“The Cult of Un-dressed-e. I love it. There’ll be lots of butts.” William slurred, throwing his hand around Varric’s shoulders and stooping to do so.

“Butts?”

“So many butts. So many… many butts.”


	12. I almost lost you (Zevran & Cullen)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sad stuff  
> Injured Zevran  
> Brief hints at physical sexual abuse

“I almost lost you.”

The words are so sincere, Cullen’s voice so soft and desperate, it’s all Zevran can do to keep it together. Everything hurts and his chest pounds with shame. He knows the Commander means well but he wishes Cullen would just go. Zevran does not want anyone to see him like this; least of all Cullen. He could not bare the glint of pity in the ex-Templar’s eyes. Could not bare to add to Cullen’s burden because Zevran is fragile and needs protecting and needs more of Cullen’s time like everything else the man has promised himself to.

“I do not think you are capable of losing anything, Commander. You would fight through the void to cheat death, yes?” The Antivan tries. His voice is hoarse and dry but well masked. He cannot bring himself to look at Cullen. His eyes lock onto the tent walls as if they are far more interesting than the expression he knows awaits him. He studies a fold in the fabric like the scar above Cullen’s lip, likely tense and pursed as the Commander takes stock of how damaged his agent is.

“For you… without hesitation.”

And once more the heartfelt sincerity cuts deep through Zevran. Don’t be stupid, he wants to shout, don’t throw yourself away on someone like me. You don’t mean that, he wants to hear echoed and written in stone. He doesn’t deserve any of it. He… shouldn’t.

“Zevran…”

Cullen whispers the name like a prayer and Zevran feels ill. Why? What could Cullen possibly hope to gain by continuing their little tryst? He is just an elf, a failed assassin, he is not worthy of such devotion. He cannot even collect his own contracts, apparently.

Cullen’s eyes focus on Zevran’s skin. His hands itch to touch but he refrains. He doesn’t know how; Zevran is still an enigma. How does he hold him tightly enough to show the elf he means what he says, but not tight enough to frighten him away? More pressingly, how does he touch and not cause pain? Every inch of Zevran seems slathered with bruises and scrapes. Full lips are thicker still with a bloodied split to match the swollen black eye.

Cullen wants to hold Zevran to his chest; wants to tell him that he will never let this happen again, but he refrains. He knows he must not cage the Crow, even in love, and so he swallows his promises and bears the pain.

“I am told you were a man possessed, Commander.” Zevran breathes, pain in his words. Cullen frowns hard.

“When you did not return with the scouts… I’ve never felt such rage. Fear can make a man do terrible things but pair that with rage and I…” Cullen hesitates, “I don’t want to imagine what I would have done had Leliana not stopped me.”

Zevran offers a tired smile.

“So, the Lion earns his name again, yes?”

“I’ll kill them all for this. With my bare hands if I have to.”

“No.” Zevran says, almost too quickly. He turns his head and dares to meet Cullen’s eyes. “Only one needs to die for this and I will do it myself.”

Cullen frowns at the expression on Zevran’s battered face. He slowly lifts his hand to white-gold hair permanently crimped where braids should be. He pushes his fingers delicately into blond roots for a moment, thumb worrying over Zevran’s temple. He slides his palm down to move hair out of Zevran’s face.

Zevran wants to keep up his walls. He does not want to let Cullen in because he knows it ends in one of two ways; Cullen will hurt Zevran or–worse and more likely–Zevran will hurt Cullen. But he’s pushed too hard and too far. His skin vibrates with the violent, perverse hands of an old enemy and all Zevran wants is the warm hand on his temple.

Cullen keeps himself mostly in check as he watches Zevran start to unravel. Tears gather quickly then stream un-interrupted down stained cheeks, breathing becomes shallow, nostrils flare.

The first sob breaks Cullen’s resolve. He is instantly moving, thankful he took the time to dress down to bare breeches and a shirt. He gently shifts Zevran in order to climb onto the bedroll with him. He cradles the elf’s head in his arms, pulling the Antivan to rest against his chest, between his legs. He keeps the elf wrapped in thin linens and embraces Zevran to his heart. He holds as tightly as he dares.

Zevran will berate himself later for such a mistake, but for now Cullen is too real. He feels small against the Commander’s chest but he also feels safe. He has not felt that in years. His ears twitch to catch soft whispered assurances. Cullen’s lips are on the top of his head, kissing through words of painful adoration. For the first time since he can remember, Zevran lets himself cry.


	13. Is there a reason you're naked in my bed? (Samson & Alaina)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nakedness  
> Make-outs  
> Lyrium addiction  
> Slight body horror  
> Original character

“Is there a reason you’re naked in my bed?”

“Is there a reason I shouldn’t be?”

Alaina can’t help but grin. Her body ached from intensified training and lately her mind had not been at peace with her ‘relationship’, but still she broke into a soft grin. She knew he could see it, but she kept the rest of her armored body rigid as if angry, as if on high alert.

“And what if Dagna were to come fetch you? Or a guard walk in?”

Samson scoffed and waved dismissively. His thin, abused body lounged on the bed covers. Propped up on his side he’d clearly posed himself there on purpose. He’s more comfortable in his nudity than Alaina feels he’s a right to be.

“Dagna knows what kinds of things we get up to. The girl’s curious but she’s not /that/ curious. Plus, she’s finished with me for today. Told me I’d 'done good’ and sent me on my way. And I’ll just remind any interested guards that I /am/ your ward.”

“Yes, my ward. My ward who should be shackled. My ward who undoubtedly should be clothed. My ward who most certainly should not be reclining in my bed as if awaiting a reward for good behavior.”

“Aww,” Samson pouted. “But I did so /well/ today.”

Alaina chuckled in spite of herself. She turned and began removing her Templar armor, placing each piece upon the rack in routine order.

“The last time you told me that, you’d punched the blacksmith for a 'rude comment’.”

“He said I was an idiot.”

“You can’t punch people for calling you names, Samson.” Alaina turned, shaking free her shoulder length brown hair. “Not anymore, not at least until…” She paused and glanced down.

“Would shackles help?” Samson supplied. He grinned in a crooked, suggestive way as Alaina met his gaze. He pushed himself to his knees on the bed and slowly moved forward. Perched at the edge of the mattress he lifted his arms and pressed his wrists together. He held them out towards Alaina plaintively.

“I won’t struggle.”

Alaina moved forward with a heavy sigh. Neither of them liked to consider the 'until’ when it came to Samson. His situation was temporary at best and none of those involved really knew what the future held for him. 'Until’ was loaded, 'until’ was heavy, 'until’ was unpleasant. At least Alaina found company that did not wish to discuss 'until’.

She stopped with Samson’s fists just inches away from her stomach. Armor gone she was now clad only in light cloth breeches and an old shirt. She glanced down at Samson’s arms, placing her hands on her hips, and followed her gaze up to his shoulders. She studied his torso, scarred and imperfect where old muscle was attempting to push through neglect and addiction. Her eyes wandered further down over the pale expanse of an abdomen…

“Lieutenant?” Samson prompted, well aware he was being inspected. The prospect excited him and his body slowly reacted in kind. He was rewarded by a shove to the chest which sent him flat to his back on the bed. He craned his head up to watch Alaina quickly remove her shirt and breast binding. Samson’s eyebrows raised.

“Shackles later.” Alaina promised. She crawled forward to straddle the ex-Templar. She leaned forward, hair falling to shield their kiss from view of anyone who dared look.


	14. Don't you dare throw that snoba-, goddamnit! (Samson & Cullen)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PTSD triggers  
> Language  
> Description of violence  
> Description of gore

“Don’t you dare throw that snowba-, damnit Samson.”

“Aww, what’s the matter Rutherford? Can’t afford to have a little fun? Not like anything got in through that lion’s mane of yours.”

“We’re on patrol.”

“And that means what? We can’t have a little fun?” Samson smirked as a passing recruit chuckled. “See? Oars thinks it’s funny.”

“Oars worships the ground you walk on.” Cullen complained, continuing to shake snow out of his cloak. “You could tell him your last shit was hilarious and he’d laugh until he was blue in the face.”

“Maker’s Teat, Rutherford. Untwist your small clothes. It was jut a bit of fun. No harm done.” Samson rolled his eyes slightly. He continued to follow at Cullen’s side, even though he technically was the senior Templar.

“We’re not out here to have fun. We’re out here to do our duty.”

“Our duty?” Samson sighed heavily, stopping. He waited until Cullen glanced over his ridiculous cloak. “And what, pray tell, is our duty?”

“To keep our eyes on the mages. To ensure they obey the rules. To…”

“Yes, yes. To prevent them from falling to forbidden magics? To make sure they don’t turn into Abominations?” Cullen turned to fully face Samson. “Have you had a good look at the ‘mages’ our current 'duty’ puts us in charge of, Rutherford?”

“Of course I have!” Cullen hissed in a whisper, offended. He moved up to Samson and poked the slightly taller man in the chest. “I never take my eyes off them.”

“Really? Then what, exactly, do you see?” Samson crossed his arms over his chest. He nodded in the direction of the mages in question, enjoying a few hours out in the courtyard. Cullen turned. Samson waited.

Orsino frowned as he watched the senior Templars. They were bickering. They were looking in his direction and that made him more than uneasy. A young boy named Maddox swore that Samson was trustworthy but Cullen had no such backing. If rumors were to be believed, Cullen was very dangerous; perhaps too dangerous for this Samson to control.

“I see thirteen, including the First Enchanter. Apprentices.”

“Children, Rutherford! Kids! The oldest one is barely twelve.” Samson clamped a hand on Cullen’s shoulder, indicating the young flock. The gesture was shrugged off in a huff.

“I know that!” Cullen spun on Samson again.

“Then why do you treat them as if they’re armed and rabid?”

“All mages are dangerous.”

“Bullshit.”

“Samson!” Cullen reached out to grab Samson’s arm, to halt the other Templar, but he missed and was shrugged aside. He watched with narrowed eyes as Samson approached a young mage with his back to them. Cullen’s eyes darted to the First Enchanter. The elf seemed nervous, but did not move.

“Hey, psst.” Samson called softly, crouching. The young mage turned to him curiously.

“You want to see something funny?” Samson offered. He began balling snow between his hands as the boy nodded.

“Samson, don’t.” Cullen cawed cautiously, but he made no move to stop it.

Samson let the snowball fly, his hand on the back of his young accomplice. The missile hit it’s target. The slightly older apprentice whirled around, freezing as he saw a fully armored Templar chuckling with one of the younger boys.

“He did it.” Samson lied, indicating the mage child. The older boy grinned. He bent down to return the favor but hesitated. He looked to Orsino quickly. The First Enchanter offered a smile and then a nod.

Cullen felt himself relax slightly as Samson’s gambit paid off. The young apprentices soon began pelting one another with tightly packed handfuls of snow. Cullen remembered on year in Honnleath–before he left for Templar training–a large snowball fight that had lasted a whole afternoon. These children reminded him of his friends…

Suddenly one of the mages stumbled–hit a little too hard–and he shouted as he fell to the ground. Cullen blinked quickly to erase the image of blood pooling beneath the boy. Samson knelt to help the child up and was tagged in the back. Cullen’s heart thudded with the hit. He swallowed against the sight of a Templar run-through by one of his fallen comrades, possessed. Blood poured down the blade.

Cullen’s breathing hitched as Samson was suddenly pummeled by snowballs. A knight hit from all sides by spheres of flame. Unable to put himself out he would soon be cooked alive. The cries and laughter of play became screams of agony, the cackle of evil. The cold air became filled with the stench of blood. Men and women fell around him, well-seasoned and untested Templars alike. Spells flew through the air; armor crashed onto the walls like waves upon a rocky shore.

“Cullen!”

The blond Templar blinked. He was panting as if exhausted, sweating like a man with fever. His sword was drawn, poised in an attack and the hollow silence around him indicated he’d been screaming. Around him stood Templar recruits, some with blades drawn others with hands outstretched and all of them confused. As his vision cleared he recognized what lay before him. Orsino held the apprentices back like a mother hen and Samson shifted at Cullen’s feet. There was an angry red gash across Samson’s bicep, but the mage girl in his arms was unhurt.

Samson breathed as he watched faint recognition dawn in Cullen’s crazed eyes.

“There we are, Rutherford. Put the sword away.” Samson moved slowly to stand. He gently pushed Cullen’s sword down until the tip buried itself in the snow.

“Easy Cullen. Kirkwall, remember? You’re in Kirkwall.”

Cullen took a few steps back as he sheathed his blade. Glancing around like a trapped beast freed by benevolent hunters, the Templar bid a hasty retreat.

“Ahh, fuck me.” Samson groaned, covering the ears of the girl in his lap as he did.


	15. I need you to wake up because I can't do this without you. (The Iron Bull & Rawls Lavellan)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Talk of death and murder  
> Slightly descriptions of injury  
> Sad Iron Bull

"I need you to wake up because I can't do this without you. This tal'vashoth thing? The whole Inquisition nonsense? They need you. I need you."

The words sounded strange, felt strange, but he knew they were true. It could never be said of the Iron Bull that he avoided the truth. He'd simply never guessed that one day his personal truth would be that his whole life depended upon one person and that was in no way military.

If Rawls Lavellan did not survive, the Iron Bull did not know how he would go on. Miserable and alone, he imagined. He still had his Chargers but this was different. The Chargers knew that. They understood.

Fragile. Broken. Those were words Bull never thought he'd apply to Rawls. Not even when he'd somehow survived Haven. Sure he was beat all to hell but he was strong. He'd had a good full meal that day--everyone had--and the fight with Corypheus had no doubt gotten the elf's blood pumping; but this?

They'd lost Rawls to the Venatori four days earlier. It had taken too long for them to assemble a rescue, but the Venatori were dangerous. No one knew what kind of shit they'd put Rawls through while he waited. Judging by the look of him when Bull and the others had burst through the door though signaled it hadn't been a fucking vacation.

They'd been so damned close!

Bull growled low in his gut. He shifted where he sat on the ground next to Rawls' bedroll. He gingerly lifted his hand to let it hang in the air just inches above Rawls' tightly wrapped belly. The bandages were bloody and the wound still put out too much heat. He'd been out for a full day already; Bull was half-way to praying to Andraste just to get him to wake up.

"You're just beatin' yourself up, Chief." Krem said quietly as he entered the tent. Bull snorted. "Watchin' him day and night isn't gonna make him wake up faster." His tone was concerned, but confident. "I'm not sure he'd really wanna wake up to your ugly mug anyway." Krem put a hand on Bull's shoulder as the jab earned a chuckle.

"We were so close, Krem. So damned close. A few seconds earlier and those Venatori would've been toast. Damnit!"

"We got him out, that's what's important. He survived a one-on-one with Corypheus at Haven, what makes you think a sword in the gut is gonna be able to do him in?" Krem frowned as he got no response. He squeezed Bull's shoulder. "You ripped the Vints responsible in half, Bull. They paid for this with their lives. I know you don't remember but... you got revenge. And Rawls isn't dead."

"I know that's supposed to help, Krem... thanks." Bull rubbed at his temple while Krem gave his shoulder a pat.

"He'll be pissed if he wakes up and hears you haven't had any meals and barely left to take a piss for four whole days."

Bull tilted his head to watch Krem slip through the tent flap. His lieutenant was right. Bull would get an earful... when Rawls woke up. If he woke up.

The Qunari returned his attention to the elf, silent save labored breathing. What if he died the second Bull left the tent? What if he woke up just long enough to realize he was alone before giving up the ghost? Bull was willing to suffer Rawls' wrath over those scenarios.

He reached out and wove his fingers into dark auburn hair, his thumb rubbing shortly shorn sides that were fuzzy from neglect. The elf's hair grew damned fast.

His hand was still caressing Rawls' temple when he felt a long breath over his forearm. He glanced down to find bleary, red-shot pale-green eyes gazing up at him. His chest constricted. He lowered his hand to stroke a thumb over a cheek decorated with scars to honor an old elven god.

"Kadan." Came the voice Bull heard in his sleep. The Qunari's eyes watered.

"Vhenan." Iron Bull managed to reply.

"You... big softie." Rawls murmured, giving Bull a smile. His eyes closed slowly but Bull watched his chest, the controlled rise and fall.

The Inquisitor was awake. The Inquisitor was alive.


	16. We're in the middle of a thunderstorm and you want to stop and feel the rain? (Nathaniel Howe & Anders)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brief mention of mage abuse

"We're in the middle of a thunderstorm and you want to stop and feel the rain?" Nathaniel's voice was incredulous, nearly monotone. His echoing expression did not change as his companion nodded. Nodded in a way that suggested Nathanial was the irrational one because clearly everyone else in Thedas would have agreed with Anders.

"Fine, do what you must... but I'll have you know this is the stupidest thing I've ever heard. And hurry; Aeren and the others are waiting for us."

"I say this in the nicest possible way, Nate, but I don't give a rat's ass what you think." Anders' tone and expression were quite jovial.

Grumbling at the nomenclature--which he repeatedly told his fellow wardens not to use--Nathaniel crossed his arms over his chest to wait. Anders quickly tugged off his boots and robes, laying them haphazardly against the shelter wall. The archer's eyes studied pale flesh turned into a canvas of color. He could make out the scales of justice, shackles broken by what appeared to be words, and decorative feathers tattooed over most of the mage's back. A loud boom rattled in Nathaniel's gut but the mage did not appear to be deterred. On the contrary, Anders' grin turned into a wide, open-mouthed smile as he loosed his hair and dropped the tie atop the rest of his discarded clothing.

Anders slowly stepped out onto the grass, already soaked from the downpour. He looked down as he wiggled his toes against mud and wet greens. He smiled wide at the sensation. The mage lifted his gaze and walked further out. A whip of lightning illuminated the sky above him. He took a few more steps out before stopping. Anders slowly raised his arms out and tilted back his head.

In spite of his sour attitude, Nathaniel found himself watching Anders curiously. He cocked his head as the mage's hair was almost instantly drenched. Anders seemed to be welcoming the storm which only further baffled Nathaniel. The cold had never bothered the archer but even he had to admit there was a chill in the air; the rain could not be that comforting.

Anders closed his eyes and breathed in deep. He focused his mind on the feel of the rain down his face and through his hair. Though he was far from ashamed of his emotion he was glad the rain masked steady tears. His eyebrows knitted together and he barely resisted the urge to drop to his knees and weep.

Nathaniel dropped his arms as realization dawned on him; how many times had Anders actually been in the rain? How many years had the mage spent locked up and forced to simply watch the weather? Freedom was still a new concept for the recruit warden. Nathaniel would try harder to remember that.

Anders sighed and slowly returned to Nathaniel. He smiled almost sheepishly at the archer from behind a curtain of dripping hair. He looked like a ten year old boy caught playing in the mud by his mother.

Nathaniel smiled.

"Live up to your expectations?"

"Aside from the chill of hindsight, yes."

Nathaniel laughed and pulled a thick wool blanket from his pack. He placed it around Anders' shoulders before the mage could retrieve his dry clothing.

"I'm sorry."

"For what?" Anders wrapped the blanket tighter around himself, unable to stop grinning.

"Just... I'm sorry."


	17. I'm pregnant. (Alistair & Aeren Cousland)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Talk of pregnancy  
> Talk of high risk pregnancy

*I’m pregnant.*

Alistair blinked as his wife’s ‘voice’ sounded in his head. He turned to look at her. He’d been happily unpacking, preparing for a long stay in Skyhold no matter what his advisers recommended, when he’d been silently interrupted. He hadn’t even known Aeren was there until she 'spoke up’. He lifted an eyebrow.

“Could you… repeat that? The whole warden-mind-speak must be broken because…”

'I’m pregnant.’ This time Aeren ignored the use of her warden gifts and signed to Alistair, a language she knew he was fluent in. Her hands hung in the air as she finished the sign. She was proud of herself that they did not shake. She felt as if she was practically vibrating.

“Aeren,” Alistair stood, his voice like the calm one might use to talk a friend off a ledge or talk a mad-man into setting aside his weapon, “we’re both wardens.”

'I. Am. With. Child.’ Aeren signed slowly, making sure to emphasize each word, pausing in between as she met Alistair’s eyes firmly.

“A-eren.” Alistair shakily put his hands on Aeren’s upper arms. He knitted his eyebrows together in concern and sorrow.

'I’ve been with Anders all morning. I felt strange. It’s… viable, healthy. He can help. It won’t be easy but he says he can put up… barriers, inside. It’s the Blight that kills the baby, most of the time. If we can hold off the taint long enough for the baby to be strong enough to…’ Aeren’s words were interrupted, hands trapped as Alistair embraced her. His arms wrapped around her and tightened. Aeren broke into a wide smile and turned her hands to take fist fulls of Alistair’s tunic.

“I didn’t think… that we could–not ever.” Alistair turned his head against Aeren’s short fuzz. He pressed his nose and lips against her head, kissing as he continued to mumble soft words of confusion and disbelief. Suddenly he stepped backwards, holding Aeren at arm’s length.

“Aeren! Our baby will be half elf!” He exclaimed excitedly, quickly moving one hand up to trace his wife’s slightly pointed ear. His face ached with a smile as Aeren laughed silently and nodded. He could see tears in her eyes, felt them in his own.

“A-and Anders thinks that… We can do this?”

'It won’t be easy.’ Aeren replied, reluctantly letting go of Alistair to do so. 'But he’s fairly confident. I know this will be hard for you, but it means we’ll have to stay in Skyhold for the majority of the pregnancy. He wants to see me two or three times a day until things are further along. This is… unprecedented territory–two wardens reproducing–and neither he nor I know what to expect.’ Aeren paused, reaching up to wipe a few tears from Alistair’s face. He gave a soft laugh that was mostly air and tilted his cheek into her hand.

*It might not survive, it might not work but… we’ve got to try. Right?*

“Absolutely. I wouldn’t … Couldn’t imagine not trying. We’ll move into Anders’ quarters if we have to. Whatever it takes.” Alistair laughed and grabbed Aeren’s hand. “We have to tell Fiona, immediately!”


	18. I think I'm in love with you and I'm terrified. (Varric Tethras & Cassandra Pentaghast)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little bit of self-hating Varric

"I think I'm in love with you and I'm terrified."

Varric frowned. He frowned so hard it looked unnatural on his face and he frowned a lot. He sighed and leaned forward to press his forehead to the mirror.

"Yeah, that'll smooth things over. Heh, shit."

The dwarf slowly closed his eyes. He'd never felt such a pit in his stomach, not with Bianca or Hawke. They were their own brand of pain; Bianca was the first, Hawke was never a real option. This though, shit, could this happen?

It could, that's why it was bad. The only problem, the only roadblock was Varric himself. That meant this would either succeed or fail based solely upon... Varric. There were no guilds, no elves, no arranged marriages, no unrequited feelings. Just Varric.

It made his stomach churn and his heart sing. It filled his mind with soft domesticity and chilling rejection. If it worked it was because of him but if it failed then it was also because of him. No pressure.

He moved away from the mirror. He thought about pacing but stalled as he neared his night stand. Sitting atop an unfinished manuscript was a full, intact dragon's tooth. The gnarled thing was too big to be anything other than a paperweight but the sentimental value was immense. She'd given it to him. The first dragon slain by the Inquisitor and she'd been there. She'd pulled a tooth. She'd claimed from the get-go it was for Varric; she'd taken his place in the scouting party after all. He'd never tell her that the bottle of wine he'd given to her to celebrate the slaying had once had other purposes. It was supposed to be a wedding gift for Bianca.

Hell, maybe he would tell her. That was romantic, right? Or was it an insult? A reminder that she was the third time he'd fallen in love. He wondered if she was over-thinking the whole damned thing too. A drunken night had led to an awkward morning but a long talk and much needed connections. That had been months ago. Was it too soon for whispers of love?

Varric muttered dwarven curses under his breath, running fingers over the dragon's tooth. He wasn't sure he could handle outright rejection but... this over-analyzing everything was going to kill him.

His head pounded as three short knocks sounded on his door. He quickly reached up and let down his hair. Anders and Zevran both had told him that trying something different was a surefire way to create sparks. He immediately regretted the decision as bangs were instantly in his peripheral vision.

He rolled his shoulders and opened the door. He smiled.

"Evening, Seeker."


	19. You fainted... straight into my arms. You know if you wanted my attention you didn't have to go to such extremes. (Carver Hawke & Lysas)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Slight violence  
> Hinting at mage abuse

"You fainted... straight into my arms. You know if you wanted my attention you didn't have to go to such extremes."

The Templar's soft tone did not put Lysas' mind at ease. His cheeks flushed bright red and he attempted to sit upright. The world spun and he collapsed back against Carver's chest. The Templar's arms remained politely at Lysas' waist to hold him steady.

"Really, it's all right. The fighting is over for now. Your Enchanter and our Commander came to an agreement, for the time being."

Lysas sat up, slower this time. He felt the still armored Templar slide over. The elf reached up to rub at his head, trying to recall what had happened. The Enchanter was taking them to Redcliff, to supposed safety. They'd run into the small contingent of Templars. Things were a bit tense but it was starting to look promising when...

"Your arm!" Lysas chirped, turning to face the dark-haired human. His eyes quickly scanned the limb in question, arms reaching out to grab and hold Carver's bicep steady. The Templar gave a soft, amused chuckle.

"It's fine, really. I can't say it's just a scratch because that would be a lie, but it's not serious. I'll live." Carver smiled, his eyes squinting as he did so. He watched as the elf mage nodded, seemingly to himself, and looked away. The color in the mage's cheeks returned and Carver tilted his head to the side, confused.

Lysas pulled his hands away from Carver's arm and set them in his lap, folding his fingers together and tapping the fabric of his robes nervously. 

"Thank you." Lysas said after a moment, glancing up and at the rest of the camp as he did so. He could see his fellow mages segregated to one side--probably their own doing--but a few scattered Templars dared to chat with his companions. Some of them seemed quite at ease, while others were stiff of body but looser of tongue.

"For what?" Carver asked, miffed as he stared out at the rest of the camp, trying to see whatever it was Lysas was looking at.

"For saving me. For jumping in front of me like that; in front of your own friend. Not many people would have done that, and fewer Templars... especially for a mage they'd just met." Lysas slowly looked down. His eyes landed on the small fire pit a few feet in front of them. Another Templar sat across the fire, looking either half-asleep or half-dead. It made Lysas wonder if maybe the mage rebellion had been as hard on the Templars as it had been on the mages. He'd known a few good Templars in his life. He'd hate to think of his own freedom causing them such grief.

"Well, he's not really my friend. I--don't think I even known his name. He's not from Kirkwall, the Circle I served. We picked him and a few stragglers up, so it's not like I owe him anything." Carver started. He intended to end there but suddenly sat up straight and looked to Lysas, almost horrified. "I mean... I didn't mean it like that. Stepping in front of his blade was what any good Templar should have done, any rational person. You were unarmed and non-hostile. Only the crazy Templars or the power mongers jump down a mage's throat simply for existing. I was... doing my duty. The duty we all should have been doing from the beginning."

Lysas smiled a little, put at ease by Carver's suddenly very normal babbling. It was the kind of normal Lysas attributed to other mages, to other people who treated him like he was worth something... like he was a person too. Being both a mage and an elf made people like that hard to find.

"It was still... heroic. Thank you." 

"Uhh, right. Don't mention it." Carver muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. It was his turn to go scarlet in the cheeks. It earned him a soft chuckle from Lysas... and only made the situation worse.


	20. Have I entered an alternate universe or did you really just crack a smile for me? (Varric Tethras & Cassandra Pentaghast)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Slight self-hate/loathing  
> A little alcohol

"Have I entered an alternate universe or did you really just crack a smile for me?"

"Don't be ridiculous." Cassandra said under her breath, but it was far less toxic than it should have been. It was half-way between embarrassment at being caught and formality after having done so for so long she was now expected to.

"You have the sense of humor of a sailor, and the vocabulary of a fourteen year old boy. Hardly anything to crack a smile over." The Seeker continued, though her lips were certainly not frowning.

She glanced over slightly from her seat at the tavern table. Varric was smirking. It was that same, infuriating smirk he always wore when he saw right through her. It was the same look he'd given when she'd been outed as a fan of his work; it was the same look he'd given when she let it slip that she could recite the poetry of many a lesser known poet from Orlais. All the good poetry comes from Antiva, he'd said before slipping her a book of Antivan poetry days later.

"Well, I'll try to sound more like a thirty year old chantry sister from now on then." Varric couldn't keep the grin from his face. He knew it was stupid, his cheeks ached and burned, but he was lost for the moment. He and Cassandra had come a long way since she'd forcibly interrogated him in Kirkwall, but only now did he see she might, actually, kind of ... enjoy his company. As if her agreeing to share a few drinks with him--and him alone--wasn't tell enough.

His smile faded slowly as she picked up her mug and a dark thought hit him. Was this... a romantic outing? He hadn't really planned for it to be--though he hadn't actively planned for it /not/ to be--but what about Cassandra? He'd been fairly clear that they weren't expecting anyone else, hadn't he? It was a friendly invitation, right? He hadn't tried to pull anything over on her or use any of the countless romantic lines he'd picked up--or written down--over the years. Did she think this was a date? Did she think this wasn't a date? Why would she think it wasn't a date? Was it because the thought had never crossed her mind or because Varric hadn't put enough effort into it? Should he have? Would she have agreed to come out had it been a date? Would Varric have wanted that?

"I... must admit, Varric, I was surprised by your invitation to dinner." Cassandra said slowly, somehow the ale she was drinking seemed to sober her up rather than intoxicate her. She left her hands around the mug, rubbing her thumb over the well-worn handle. She felt strange to be in the tavern on... personal business. Everyone in Skyhold knew who she was, what she represented and what she did, and she rarely let anyone see her when not fully armored. It made sense that she needed a break, however. Everyone was always hounding Commander Cullen to relax--herself included--and it was maybe about time she had taken her own advice.

"Oh?" Varric tried to sound nonchalant. He wasn't actually expecting or asking for answers to his questions. He tried to swallow his heart, suddenly attempting to vacate through his mouth.

"I was rather under the impression that you... tolerated me, at best. Hardly the kind of person you might invite to share a meal with. Especially alone." Cassandra frowned at her tone, but there was nothing she could do about it now.

"Now Seeker, that's absurd. If I didn't like you, I wouldn't pick on you so much. That's how I show affection. It's part of my quirky charm." Varric turned his head in time to catch Cassandra's gaze. They held eyes for a moment before nervously looking away. Oh Maker's balls... /was/ this a date?

"That is good to know. I have been harder on you than perhaps I should have been. You are stubborn at times, yes, and you have the worst timing of anyone I know but... the Inquisition owes you a great deal."

"Ahh well, I can't say I really had any plans. Maybe live a long life, enjoy what's left of my youth, but who really wants that?" Varric reached up and adjusted his heavy necklace, listening to Cassandra give a small chuckle.

"The Inquisition would certainly not be the same without you." Cassandra quickly bit her lip, staring at the ale left in her mug. She did not drink often and so the effects were quite clear to her. She could feel her fingers tingle. The urge to softly whisper 'nor would I' was strong, but she bit it back.

"Thanks, Seeker. Coming from you, that means a lot." Varric said in a tone far too serious for a man eating dinner alone with a Princess of Nevarra. "And don't worry, I won't tell a soul you said so."

Varric turned his head in time to catch Cassandra smile. The expression closed her eyes and gave her a sense of peace. Varric was unaware his face echoed the Seeker's.


	21. Wait a minute. Are you jealous? (Dorian Pavus & Cole)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Colemance  
> Slightly sexual?

"Wait a minute. Are you jealous?" Dorian's eyebrows lifted as he tilted his head to regard the blond. Cole's blue eyes were focused across the room at the burly soldier Dorian had just been talking to. The boy's thin lips were pursed tightly in what was clearly a scowl.

"No. I am Cole, you know that." Cole responded, though the only change in expression was a quick blink.

Dorian followed Cole's gaze across the courtyard once more. There were numerous people about--it was a beautiful summer's day after all--but Cole was clearly only looking at one. Dorian let out a short, bark-like laugh and shook his head.

"You don't need to be jealous, amatus." He purred, gazing at the soldier himself. "We were just having a friendly chat."

"He touched your arm." Cole said quietly, turning to look at Dorian albeit reluctantly. "You told me that people only touch other people when talking... if they are flirting."

"Smart boy, you /have/ been listening." Dorian reached out and tilted Cole's hat just a little. "True as that is, flirting is not always a bad thing. It's in some people's nature to be flirtatious, even those in committed relationships. There is nothing wrong with a little flirting, Cole. I belong to you, remember?"

"I still don't like it." Cole whispered, dropping his gaze. He folded his hands together at his belt and wrung them slightly. "It makes my head hurt and my... stomach ache. Not like when I'm hungry, but close."

Dorian smiled. It was a kind smile that started at one corner of his mouth and spread quickly to the other. He lifted a hand to Cole's chin and turned the boy's head up. He leaned in and planted a soft kiss on pink lips. Pulling back after a second he made sure to scan Cole's face.

"I'm sorry, Cole. Flirting is an old habit. I'll try to tone it down for you, hmm?"

"You don't... have to change for me, Dorian." Cole admitted quietly, though the smile on his face showed he was grateful Dorian was offering.

"Ahh, well, maybe it's about time I change anyway. I'm not just some young upstart in Tevinter any more. I am a respected member of the Inquisition. I am a professor at the College of Magi. I've got quite a new reputation outside the walls of the Imperium. Sometimes a relationship means personal change, it might not always be easy, but sometimes it's necessary." Dorian crossed his arms over his chest, his weight shifting to cock his right hip.

"You could flirt with me." Cole offered. He smiled as Dorian laughed, for he recognized that as the laugh Dorian reserved for Cole specifically. He laughed like that whenever Cole said something that truly amused him, and in a good way. He wasn't so much laughing at Cole as much as he was laughing because of Cole. Putting it into words was hard, but Cole knew, and Cole was delighted to hear that sound.

"I do flirt with you! Quite constantly." Dorian emphasized by reaching out and fixing a small flap high on Cole's shirt collar. He paused as Cole reached up and slowly traced the green-gold emblem across Dorian's chest. Dorian tilted his head as a soft fingertip barely brushed over silken fabrics.

"Varric told me that you flirt with someone you want to... know better." Cole continued softly, fingers still tracing the emblem.

"That's partially true. Flirting can also be a game. It's fun. It can also be a compliment. It's a way of telling someone you find them attractive, even if that doesn't always mean that you want to sleep with them. Of course some people might misinterpret you, but that is entirely their problem. I flirt to have fun, to show off, it's nothing more personal than that. If some fool gets it into his head that my flirting means anything more, I'll either kindly turn him down or burn off his face when he tries something." Dorian grinned at Cole's sharp little laugh.

"I don't think you should burn off his face." Cole's cheeks burned a bright red. Dorian tilted his head slightly to get a better look. The Tevinter lifted his eyebrows.

"Oh? And why is that?"

"He... has a very hansom face." Cole finished, glancing back across the courtyard. He heard Dorian's short laugh once more and turned back to his partner.

"That he does. Now, let us head back inside. I've got some mint oils we haven't yet tried."


End file.
